The Ones We Carry
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: During a difficult case, sleep deprivation and hunger take their toll on John. He fights Sherlock, the memories, and himself.  Very Dark.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey for letting me borrow the John she created in A House Divided. I had an idea floating around and John, as she wrote him, provided me with the inspiration I needed to write it. I'm also borrowing John's fallen friend, Jamie, from her in a later chapter of this. Thanks!

Warning – Rated M for content, not for good times. This story is _very_ dark, dealing with death and the mental ramifications. Ultimately there will be a pacifying ending, but it's dark until then. There are cuss words, death of innocent teenagers, some mild gore, and drunkenness to follow. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Disclaimer – Not mine…

The Ones We Carry

I was tired, exhausted actually, and hadn't eaten anything in close to 24 hours. It was a bad combination for my attitude on a good day. Add the fact that Sherlock was frustrated to the point of belligerence and it was a recipe for a meltdown.

In the moments before said meltdown, I was sitting on a bench, outside the morgue, at St. Bart's. I had my elbows on my knees and my forehead resting on my palms. I'd just 'assisted' on my third post-mortem in 18 hours, all three of them 15-year-old girls. Which was hard enough, but the fact that there were still 5 girls missing made it worse. And Sherlock, the World's Only Consulting Detective, my friend, my flatmate, my lover for exactly 5 months, was having no luck in locating them.

He was pacing the hallway, randomly kicking or banging his head against the wall. I knew he was mentally berating himself for missing, whatever it was he was missing. He was talking to himself in the disjointed way he does when moving the pieces about. I wasn't actually listening, not that I could have followed along if I had been.

I was trying to erase the image of Emily Harper from behind my eyes. Emily Harper, 15, from Cardiff, found on the bank of the Thames in Westminster this morning at 11 am. She'd been dead only a few hours. Cause of death, unknown, even after the post-mortem. No physical trauma or evidence of suffocation, the medical examiner thought, and I concurred, that it must be some type of toxin. We would know more after the toxicology reports came through, but those couldn't be rushed, much to Sherlock's irritation.

Emily had followed Rebecca. Rebecca Jenkins, 15, from Kent, missing 3 weeks, found in an abandoned flat in Wimbledon at 2 pm yesterday. She'd been dead at least 36 hours before they'd found her.

Rebecca had followed Rosa. Rosa Martin, 15, from Whitstable found on the side of the A1 just past Islington, 6 am yesterday. She'd been dead about a week.

None of them had been easy, but it was Emily's face I was seeing behind my closed lids. Maybe because she was the one I'd just finished working on. Maybe it was because I was so tired. Maybe it was because Emily still looked like a little girl. Where Rebecca and Rosa had the taken on the definite air of young women, Emily looked like barely more than a child.

I'd seen many dead bodies before, too many. Both a career in medicine and a war had provided ample opportunity. They tended to blur together in a mix of illness, wounds, blood, and bandages. But there were always those that stayed with you, with me. They had nothing in common, other than staying vivid in my memory. I had a suspicion the Emily would soon have a place among them.

_Jennifer O'Malley, with her flaming red hair, on vacation with her husband and son from Dublin. Hit by a drunk driver, husband had died at impact. I'd still been a house officer. I'd worked on her long after she'd gone; trying everything I could to bring her back. She'd been only a few years older than me. I hadn't wanted her to be dead. I hadn't wanted that boy sitting in the waiting room, completely unharmed, to lose both his parents. She was the first patient I lost. I remember the sounds in the room, the way her chest felt as I did compressions, her pupils as…_

"You must have missed something John. There has to be something there. How was the toxin administered? I need this information."

I looked up and he was standing about half way down the hallway. Dark circles and bloodshot eyes revealing his own lack of sleep. He'd never admit that weakness though. He'll work until he literally drops dead if need be. His grey eyes were glaring at me accusingly, as if I was deliberately doing a poor job to annoy him. Because naturally, with 3 dead teenage girls and 5 still missing, it was all about him and the difficulty he was having solving the case.

I took a deep breath before responding. It's a technique that has prevented many arguments, and I was too exhausted to argue then.

"Sherlock, you are more than aware of the toxins that can be administered without a physical trace. Not to mention that I am not a medical examiner by trade, but the man who is didn't find anything either. Why would I be keeping information from you?" I managed to keep my voice calm and my gaze on him steady. I hoped it would redirect his attention away from me and back onto the case. Based on the pattern we only had about 48 hours before I was watching another post-mortem on a kid.

It appeared to work. He was still annoyed, but he darted his eyes to the morgue door instead.

"I need to see the body." He announced and walked in. I didn't follow. I fought the nausea over someone else touching that girl, especially Sherlock whose intentions were cold and calculated. I knew he was only trying to find who did that to her, so I pushed the irritation down. Emily would have enough people to mourn her; she didn't need Sherlock Holmes as well.

When the nausea passed, I stood and went into the small locker room, desperately wanting to get out of the scrubs. Somebody, Molly perhaps, had left a towel and a little travel set of toiletries on the bench. I was so relieved; I'd never wanted to take a shower more. I dropped the scrubs in the bin, and stood under steaming hot water, feeling some of the mental grim leave my body along with the physical.

I couldn't stand there too long though. There was still a kidnapper and now murderer out there.

I dressed and headed back towards the morgue. I was a few steps from the door when the bellowing, "JOHN" came down the hall. I closed my eyes and sighed before entering.

He was standing next to Emily, one of his gloved hands on her head, the other pointing at it. A flash of true anger flared in his eyes, and I was momentarily surprised by it. Sherlock was almost never genuinely angry at me.

"I told you there was something else." He spit the words at me. They felt like fire shooting through my body. I repressed the urge to fire back. Instead, I breathed deep, again, and closed the distance between us.

I looked around quickly for Steve the Medical Examiner. He was nowhere to be seen. Great, I was obviously about to be belittled for something he missed.

Sherlock was holding her auburn hair parted on one side and his pointing finger was directing me towards her scalp. I leaned close and didn't notice anything. I was about to point this out when his index finger jabbed into her head, pointing me to a small dark mark. It looked like a tiny mole.

"The injection site," his voice was full of venom. The words cringed down my spine.

I straightened and met his eyes. "Does this information help in some way?" I didn't see how, but then, I rarely ever did.

He somehow managed to look angrier. And when he spoke he was doing absolutely nothing to control the tone or volume. "Of course it helps. Only an imbecile would think otherwise."

The insult, clearly directed at me, didn't surprise me too much. Our becoming intimate with each other had calmed him, especially in regards to me, but it hadn't tamed him. Not by a long shot.

I stood there and didn't say anything. My words didn't matter. My goal was simple; contain my temper until he had completed his tirade.

"God John, why did I even bother letting you sit in on the post-mortem? You provided me no information at all. Worthless. Can you explain to me what you have accomplished today? Nothing, that's what! There are 5 girls missing, perhaps you'd forgotten that. Or perhaps five is too big of a number for you to count to." I should have left then, turned and walked out. I could have avoided him until his brain caught up with his frustration. But I didn't, I let him continue.

He pointed at Emily, lying on the table. "Look at her, John. There are five other girls out there John. Don't you care? You care about everyone else, every stray cat, every homeless addict. But this girl isn't worthy of your compassion. What about the five missing girls? Are they?" He reached the line, the limit of my tolerance. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, blew right across it. Sherlock, being Sherlock, knew exactly what to say to get a rise out of me.

"How am I supposed to catch the killer, John, if you don't perform your job competently? I need the information. If left up to you her death would be a waste."

He paused, still staring at me eyes aflame. And a split second after his mouth closed, I saw the change in his eyes, the realization. He'd seen something in my face to give him pause. He saw it in my face, before I'd even felt it. He knew it before I did. But when I did, when the anger boiled over inside of me, I didn't hold back.

My voice came out of me like water through a ruptured dam. "Fuck you. Fuck you and your fucking superiority. God knows why you let the rest of us stupid idiots breathe your fucking oxygen. God! How horrible it must be to have to speak to the rest of us who can't count to five. What did you ever do to deserve being stuck on a planet with us? You should write a letter to whoever is in charge of those things. It's probably fucking Mycroft, so just text him. Then the two of you can go off to Holmesian Brilliant Land and laugh at the rest of us."

I pointed at Emily. "But while you are there remember one thing for me, one fucking little thing, HER name is EMILY. Her mother is Susan and her father is Tom. She's an only child. She was 15 years old, 15 FUCKING YEARS OLD. She wanted to be a concert pianist. She just had surgery for carpel tunnel and was doing vigorous physical therapy so that she could play again."

I pointed to the wall of refrigerated drawers.

"Second row, third drawer, Rebecca, also only 15 fucking years old. Mother Lucy, Father Joe. She has a birthmark on her neck and had her appendix taken out a year ago. She wore a gold necklace with a football on it. She wanted to make the National Team."

I moved my finger over and down. "Fourth row, sixth drawer, Rosa, 15 fucking years old. Mother also a Susan, Father Doug. She was a bone marrow donor for her younger brother two years ago, he had leukemia. She wanted to become a doctor and cure cancer."

I could see the regret move across his face, the remorse. I sure as hell wasn't going to stop. "And I will dance the cha-cha naked from here to Istanbul and back screaming 'Sherlock Holmes is the Most Brilliant Fuck on Earth' if you can name just one, JUST ONE, of the girls that is still missing." I paused knowing he couldn't do it. He wasn't even going to try. He wasn't angry anymore, far from it. That only fueled the fire.

"Joh…" He started reaching out a hand to grab my arm. I stepped back, out of reach, and continued yelling. Fear crossed his features before he reeled it in.

"How dare you suggest that I don't care? How DARE you? When this is over and you file this all away in your vastly superior intellect, only to bring it out again when you need to gloat over how brilliant you are, I'll have added them to the list of faces I see in my sleep. I'll dream about them and the lives they should have had. The lives they deserved. Thanks for 'letting' me take part in the post-mortems. I really, truly appreciate it."

I stop then, having run full speed into my wall of exhaustion. When I continued a second later my voice was back to normal, tired, but normal. "They were kids Sherlock, kids. She," I pointed back at Emily, "was worth 200 of me. She was smart and had her whole life in front of her. And as you so happily pointed out, I'm worthless. Nothing I could ever do would make her death a waste, Sherlock; the man who killed her already did that."

I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked away from him. I focused on Emily. She had the unmistakable pallor of death, lying on that cold metal table. She looked frail and sad. In my mind, I could clearly see the photo that the police were using in the missing person notices. Her auburn hair had been shining, green eyes bright. She'd had a smile that could light up a room. My throat constricted painfully, and there was a burning in my eyes.

I'd decided to join the Army. I'd decided to go to war. I'd taken all the chances and been punished for it. I was shot and it was horrible, but I lived. Emily was busy being a 15-year-old girl and she'd died.

I gulped down a breath and turned, heading back out the door. I had to get out of that room. I headed down the hallway towards the lifts. I needed fresh air, sunshine. I was suffocating under a pillow of rage. It was pounding in my ears.

I pushed the call button and closed my eyes. The picture of Emily appeared in my mind and immediately it was superimposed by the image of her on the metal table, an overweight medical examiner pulling her insides out.

_And Justin Mathers, 19, American, Land mine…_

My hands fisted in fury, grabbing the only thing in my pocket, my mobile. Just as the bell dinged letting me know my car arrived I yanked my mobile out of my pocket. I turned slightly and threw, as hard as I could. As it flew towards the wall I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Sherlock had followed me. His face showed nothing but concern, until the crash of the mobile. It shattered, pieces flying everywhere. My eyes left him to watch with satisfaction as the pieces skidded this way and that. For just a second, the feeling was euphoric, an odd sense of empowerment and accomplishment.

Then I looked back at Sherlock and saw the concern that had been there a moment ago laced with terror. He was terrified for me.

The euphoria morphed to guilt. I'd distracted him, refocused that vast intellect on me. I might have been able to see the true value in those young women, but I was the only thing that mattered to Sherlock. I took the backwards step into the lift and he took the step to follow. I held up my hand and he stopped, his eyes imploring me to let him follow, to let him make me better. I gave a quick shake of my head, my throat tightening up, again.

"Find them." I said as the doors closed, separating us.


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings – death, war, darkness, gore, and drunkenness follow…

I should have gone home, eaten a giant meal, and slept for 3 days. That would have solved all my problems, or at least put them in perspective. I didn't though. I couldn't. I didn't want to go someplace where Sherlock would look for me. I didn't want Sherlock to think about me. For the first time since I'd first walked into the lab with Mike, that I didn't want to see Sherlock. I wasn't sure I wanted me.

The sun was still up as I turned down a street I didn't recognize. It was autumn and it was cold and I didn't have a jacket. I wasn't going to be able to stay out too much longer. Even with battling the fury and the odd melancholy that had settled over me, freezing to death wasn't on the agenda. I was going to have to get indoors.

I looked around trying to get my bearings and realized I had absolutely no idea where I was, and no phone with a GPS feature to locate myself. I continued on looking for something familiar, any of the recognizable landmarks marking the London skyline. I finally spotted St. Paul's in the distance to my right and headed that way.

I pushed my legs to move faster, I wasn't wearing shoes I could run in, or I would have run. My body was producing alarming amounts of adrenaline because of the fight and to compensate for the lack of sleep. It was starting to surge through my body and my heart was pounding. I pushed my gait just past comfortable, enjoying the burn.

I thought about coffee. I thought about a restaurant and food. I thought about a hotel and sleep. I thought about home and Sherlock and our bed.

I settled on a pub, on a corner, on a street I didn't know. A pub that didn't serve any food, so clearly not the best idea I'd ever had.

I picked a stool in the corner away from the small crowd that was already gathered and ordered a pint. The bartender was young, with piercing brown eyes and dyed black hair. She spoke with a very slight French accent, probably a student. She offered me a very warm smile as she sat the glass in front of me. I offered one in return, but I was sure that it didn't even come close to looking genuine.

"My name is Marie. Please let me know when you need something else." She still had a smile on her face. I remembered when the smile of a beautiful woman would stir my insides. Sitting at the bar, I just found it kind of annoying.

When she turned away, I lifted the glass and took a long sip. I knew it was a bad idea before cold liquid got past my tongue. A very bad idea.

_Justin Mathers, 19, American Marine, Land Mine. He'd been crying silently, not releasing any of the usual excruciating moans and groans I'd come to associate with war injuries. I'd run to him as they pulled him out of the truck. It'd been freezing outside and I hadn't grabbed my coat, the thin long sleeve shirt my only protection from the sharp wind, the sharp wind that stung my eyes. I'd been annoyed that his arrival interrupted our poker game. I'd been winning. His leg was gone, along with one hand right at the wrist, and one ear. I plastered the standard issue comforting smile on my face and hoped it hid my alarm that he was actually alive. I'd introduced myself and his eyes met mine, the silent tears covering his cheeks. And in that instant, the exact instant that our eyes met, he died. I watched him exist in one second and not exist in the next. I stopped in my tracks and the men carrying the stretcher stopped in response. I just stared down at Justin Mathers, realizing he'd been waiting for a friendly face. He hadn't wanted to die alone. He'd held on for anyone, and got me, annoyed to be there. I never played poker again._

I swallowed down the last of my beer and shook my head, tossing the memory of Justin away. I knew he'd be back and soon; Justin has always been a frequent visitor in my dreams.

Suddenly there was a full glass in front of me. I thought for a long moment and managed to come up with the faint memory of getting Marie's attention.

I'd had no sleep for three days and no food in over 24 hours, I was feeling the happy blur that comes with the early phase of drunkenness. I was enjoying it. Alcohol was covering up the anger.

I glanced at the TV behind the bar and was surprised to see a football match. How long had that been on? Beer and Football, as good as it gets. It couldn't immediately place the teams, not recognizing the uniforms or any of the players' names. I just started to wonder if perhaps it was American when a loud cheer from the corner of my room erupted at a goal.

"Aussie, Aussie, Aussie," came one voice.

And a small group followed with, "Oi, Oi, Oi."

One question answered. I turned back to the screen and watched. I chuckled a little every time the commentator referred to them as "the socceroos." It seemed oddly hilarious. Soon it was halftime and there was another pint in front of me.

_Michael Black, Australian, I don't know what branch, 32, helicopter crash. He'd past through our hospital in pieces. 'It's another piece of Michael.' 'We've finally got the Australian's head.' _

_I never saw any of him or knew what he looked like, but I remembered signing over a body bag and somebody saying he played cricket. _

_Several months later I sat in our camp, rooting, silently, for Australia in the Ashes. I think Michael would have liked that. _

I tipped my glass to the socceroos, and took a sip, putting Michael temporarily to rest. He was easy to pacify with sports.

Another pint.

A man sat down next to me, my head felt heavy and awkward as I turned to look at him. The pleasant swimmy feeling was starting to feel less pleasant and swimmier. He was around my age, but the huge grin on his face revealed he was having a much better day than me, maybe a much better life. His voice was higher than I expected as he order his Guinness. He turned slightly and smiled at me as he sat back to wait for his drink.

He was excited as he spoke. "Finished work and am taking a fortnight off with my boy. He's going to be 10 in two days and I'm taking him fishing in Costa Rica. He's never been across the Atlantic before." His drink came and he took a long swig, getting a proper moustache from it. I almost laughed at the foam on his upper lip, but stopped myself.

"Should be fun," I replied. I had to focus on each word longer than necessary, forming it into something coherent. I didn't want the man to think I was drunk. "Never been there myself. I was in America once, years ago at a training thing. Never been one for fishing though. Dad took me out a couple times when I was little."

He nodded. He failed to point out I was drunk and I had a quick debate over whether he was polite or if I was just doing a good job acting sober. I decided I was an excellent actor.

"I'm hoping he'll like it. Some of my best memories with my dad were fishing." He took another long sip and I followed his lead. I didn't want to fall behind. I closed my eyes as the beer went down.

_James Watson, 41, brain aneurism, left behind a wife and two young children, Harriet 12 and John 9, almost 10. He'd been a good man, worked hard to provide for his family. Came home every night and would wrestle around on the floor with his kids while waiting on dinner. He'd check homework and listen to jazz albums. He talked about travelling to New Orleans one day. He'd read books and made his kids read books, too. "Information is important if you want to do big things." His daughter had become a lawyer, his son a doctor. He'd tell his wife he loved her while they danced in the kitchen unaware of the children watching around the corner. _

_The suit was hot and itchy and I was so angry because Harry wouldn't talk to me. I punched her when she ignored me and she started to cry. My uncle yelled at me for acting out, told me I was upsetting my mum. I was mad at her too, she wouldn't stop crying. I wanted the bad feelings to go away. _

_I didn't want to go; I didn't want to see him. He'd left us. _

_Somebody picked me up so that I could see inside the coffin. I didn't recognize him. It was all his fault. He was my dad and I hated him. _

I gulped a breath in not allowing myself to think about him any longer. Anybody but him. I finished my drink.

"Have a good trip." I said as the man tossed some notes down. He shook my hand and offered thanks. I was surprised to realize I was actually happy for him, and his son. That called for another pint.

As I waited for Marie to walk back over I looked up to check the football score and the news was on. "What happened to the football?" I asked pointing up to the telly, wondering who the hell would watch the news over footy.

"The Aussies pulled it out mate," came a voice from behind me. I bobbled my head around to see the pub was packed. There were people queuing behind me waiting on drinks. "Hell of match."

I was shocked that I'd missed it, 45 minutes not counting all of halftime. I looked back at the telly and watched the weather report. Marie brought my pint over and stood in front of me for a moment. "Feeling alright John? Can I call someone for you?"

I didn't remember telling her my name. "I broke my phone." I responded, not realizing until she was gone that in no way had that answered her question.

I needed to get Marie's attention again, to explain that I wasn't an idiot. I understood the question, really. I'd had a few too many drinks perhaps, but I wasn't an idiot. Despite what Sherlock said.

_"If it's not going to cure me I don't see the point." Henry sat across my desk from me. We were going over the report from the oncologist. Henry had decided to refuse treatment. I understood, but still felt compelled to push. He was only 43 years old, not much older than me._

_"I just think you decided this rather quickly. Think about it a little, we can talk about it again in a week or so. This isn't a decision to be rushed into, it deserves careful consideration."_

_He'd smiled at me the way Sherlock smiled at me when I was saying something he thought was ridiculous, yet endearing. Henry was humoring me. _

_"I appreciate your thoughts Dr. Watson. I really do, but this is what I'm going to die of. How many people get to see the face of the grim reaper before he strikes? I've spoken to a solicitor and I'm putting my affairs in order. Then I am going to live. The oncologist estimates that I have about 3 months before it becomes intolerable. I've got 3 months to have a really good time."_

_I opened my mouth but he interrupted me. "I am really ok with it Doctor. I promise." I met his eyes and believed him. I nodded and shook his hand, I never saw him again. Three weeks later he died of a heroin overdose in a hotel room in Thailand with 4 hookers. _

_I remember hearing the story from one of the other doctors and thinking it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Was that what he considered living? He'd died all alone, surrounded by strangers. He could have done that in Afghanistan and gotten paid for it. _

_I'd climbed into bed that night and held Sherlock tight_.

I needed another pint. They weren't going away. My head was hurting. The exhaustion was creeping up on me again and it was bringing nausea.

I felt the hand on the back of my neck and even after the events of the day the familiar pleasant twinge settled down my spine. Marie was in front of us again, I couldn't remember why I'd called her over.

Sherlock's hand was in front of me holding a credit card. Marie accepted it. I reached behind me to grab my wallet. I was more than capable of paying for my own drinks. Sherlock squeezed my neck gently, and his voice was at my ear.

"You left your wallet in the locker at the morgue." I padded my pocket to verify, and indeed it wasn't there. I turned on the barstool to check that it hadn't just fallen onto the floor. The movement made my head spin, the floor suddenly getting closer.

Sherlock caught me against his chest, encouraging my head up. "Whoa," came out of me in rush and Sherlock grunted at the additional weight.

I closed my eyes, "Keep them open." He said and I opened them. "Focus on something that isn't going to move. " There was a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the counter, I stared at it. My stomach started to churn. "The clock, John, not liquor." I focused on the clock.

The room settled around me. Marie was back with the slip for Sherlock to sign and a glass of water for me. Sherlock shoved it into my hand. "Drink this, but keep your eyes on the clock."

I obeyed and kept my eyes focused on the face of the clock around the rim of the glass. It tasted delicious. He signed the slip and stayed standing behind me while I finished drinking. His fingers kept up gentle massage on the back of my neck.

I was taking the last few sips when the picture appeared on the telly. It was Emily, with her beautiful smile, followed by Rebecca and Rosa. My breath caught and bile filled the back of my throat. I'd pushed them away, choosing the more familiar demons over the new ones, the young ones. My throat was hurting, clamping down on itself and tears filled my eyes.

I was horrified at the realization I was going to cry in a pub in front of Sherlock. It was more weakness, more stupidity. I closed my eyes, getting sick was preferable. The nausea didn't come, Emily did. Emily as she was just before we cut her open. I tried to think of the others, of Jennifer or Justin, the familiar ones. I could handle them, not Emily. I felt a tear trail down my cheek, silently, just like Justin Mathers.

The hand left my neck and moved down and across my chest settling just underneath my ribs. He pulled me back against him, hugging my body against his. I took a breath and it was a very obvious sob.

There was a voice in my ear. "We found them John, they're safe." I concentrated on my breathing. "The other five are safe." He repeats. "Joanna, Elizabeth, Hillary, Lindsey, and Jill are with their parents as we speak. They have nothing more than a bruise between them." I knew he learned the names for me, not them, but that was ok. He knew them and that was very important to me.

"Look at the telly, John." I opened my eyes and did what he asked. There was a woman being led away in handcuffs, I caught a glimpse of her before someone threw a jacket over her head. My stomach started to churn again and my breathing quickened.

There was video footage of five teenage girls being led out of the same building, Joanna, Elizabeth, Hillary, Lindsey, and Jill. I recognized each of them and they were safe. I felt another tear. I reached a hand up and wiped my eyes, preventing more.

I hiccupped.

The news story ended and there was a voice at my ear again. "Can we go home now?"

I hiccupped again.

I tried to nod, but it made the room spin. "Please." I answered. He squeezed my torso with his arm and placed a kiss into my hair, before pulling back and helping me to stand. He had to carry most of my weight as we worked our way to the door. I was continuing to hiccup the whole way.

He settled me, back against a light post, keeping his hand on my chest. I closed my eyes, but that made it worse so I opened them again. I watched Sherlock as his eyes darted back and forth looking for a cab.

"I love you." I said to him because I did. He turned his head and looked at me curiously.

"I love you, too." He replied, turning back to the road, keeping his hand pressed firmly against my chest.

"Sherlock." He turned back to me. "I am pissed at you. You weren't nice to me."

He frowns at that.

"You hurt me." I added. "You aren't supposed to hurt me."

"I know." He said, still frowning. He looked back to the road.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John." He sounded annoyed and didn't look at me. His eyes searched the road.

"The beer didn't make them go away." He turned then and looked pained and that made me sad. I didn't want to hurt him. I wasn't supposed to hurt him either.

"I know." He said after a moment. "Sleep will help though." He spotted a cab and put his hand in the air. I didn't think he was right; they often came when I was sleeping.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings – Some post drunken unpleasantness, but nothing too disgusting. And once again, I tried to use arse, but, I just can't do it so it says ass.

I dreamt of Jamie.

_We were at Bastion, but it was deserted. Not like everyone had packed up and gone home, but as if they were wiped out of existence. Cars were in the middle of roads, there were bags and boots just laying everywhere. _

_ Jamie was leaning against a jeep across the street from me. His arms were crossed, sunglasses on. He looked the same as he always did. _

_ We stared at each other across the small distance. _

_ "You're dead." I said. _

_ "You're not." He replied. _

_ "But I should be."_

_ "You're angry about that? Angry that you and I were shot at the same time and only one of us lived? And it was you?" _

_ I shake my head ready to disagree, but he disappears. I know he's dead. It hurt, again. _

The first thing I became aware of was the throbbing in my head. The second thing I became aware of was the fact that I was going to be sick.

I was on my stomach. I pushed up and leaned over. I saw the bucket and aimed in the split second before my body seized violently. The smell of stomach acid and alcohol filled the space around me. It only lasted a moment, but it was horrible.

I collapsed back down and released a groan that managed to resonate through my body and my throbbing head for different reasons. I closed my eyes intent on going back to sleep, but the spinning began. I opened them and focused on the wall across from me.

I was surprised that I wasn't looking at the wall of the bedroom, but at the bookcase. I was on the couch. Why was I on the couch? I struggled to bring up memories from the previous night, but couldn't. The last thing I remembered was Sherlock having to drag me up the stairs. He'd been trying to get me to move my legs; I'd been under the impression that they were moving. I remembered hitting the floor and Sherlock groaning.

"What an ass." I mumbled to myself, feeling the shame of indulgence sweeping over me.

I shifted as soon as my insides felt stable and let my gaze move about the room. There were two glasses of water on the table next to a plate of Ritz biscuits, Alka-Seltzer, and ibuprofen. I reached for a biscuit and rolled over. The move made my head ache, but thankfully the nausea seemed gone.

At the other end of the coffee table sat a phone. I recognized it as mine, before remembering that it couldn't be mine. Mine was in a thousand pieces somewhere. I reached for it, it was the exact same phone I'd had, just a newer model. I turned it on and sorted through the screens, all the apps were there in the correct places, all the phone numbers seemed to be there, and the pictures that I'd manage to back up onto the computer were back on the phone. Except for case photos, he hadn't reloaded the case photos.

There was a notice that I had a waiting text message, I opened the feature and read.

"Doing the paperwork. See you later? – SH"

I stared at the small screen, trying to keep it in focus. I was pretty sure he was asking me, in Sherlockian, if I was leaving him. Had I really scared him that badly? What had I said? I rubbed a hand over my eyes and settled deeper into the couch. I also could have been wrong. I was feeling far from clever.

The post-mortems were still very clear in my mind; the thought of Emily still causing a twinge of pain in my chest. But sleep had worked its magic and taken the edge off. I knew she'd stay with me, but it would be manageable. Like the others.

But Sherlock, I was furious with Sherlock. Sleep and alcohol seemed to have focused it. The things he'd said. That he'd dared to say. To me. I knew we'd have to talk, set some different ground rules.

But even being furious, I couldn't imagine leaving him. It might have killed me. But things were going to have to be different. I noticed my hands were fisted, one around the phone just like the previous day. I forced my body to relax.

I sat up and tried to ignore the swishing feeling in my head. I quickly downed three ibuprofen and the two glasses of water, feeling better as soon as the liquid hit my throat. I ate a couple more biscuits and stared at my new phone. I needed to reply, knowing as soon as I did he would come home. I had no doubt he had left to do the paperwork, but he wouldn't come home until he'd heard from me. Until I told him it was ok.

I sighed and opened the text feature again. "We'll talk about it when you get here." I responded. That answered his question, kind of.

I tossed the phone on the table, grabbed the bucket, and headed towards the bathroom. I didn't want to smell like alcohol anymore.

I wondered where he was waiting, because I wasn't in the shower for 10 minutes before I heard the door open. I wished he'd waited for me to finish, but I rolled my eyes and pushed the curtain back to look at him. His arms were crossed and he was leaning against the counter.

I was suddenly hit with the image of Jamie from my dream, leaning against the jeep. It startled me and my breath caught. Sherlock straightened, alarmed at my reaction. I shook my head pushing the image away. I looked up at his face; he'd see I was alright. I watched his concern for me fade from his features, only to reveal the fear and uncertainty beneath it. And a second later the mask of indifference was firmly in place. His fingers where white where they were gripping his arms, he couldn't hide everything.

I was pleased to see that he had at least gotten some sleep. The dark circles were lightened and the eyes no longer bloodshot.

"I'll be done here in a minute." I said, letting the curtain close. "Did you finish your paperwork?"

"Naturally." He responded. "Lestrade was particularly tedious." I heard him draw in a deep breath. "Are you leaving me John?"

Always right to the point, I was annoyed. "Can I finish my shower Sherlock? I feel like I've been hit by a train. I'd like to feel like a human again before we get into this."

I heard his footsteps. He pushed the curtain back to stare at me, his eyes darting up and down, reading me. I stood still and let him. "It's a simple question?" He stated, unable to keep the tension from his voice.

I stood straighter in the shower, "Is that really what you're going with? Let's insinuate, yet again, that John is an idiot?" I paused and watched surprise cross his face. He'd clearly meant no such thing. "_It's a simple question_?" I said his words back to him and added. "Even _you_ should be able to answer it."

"I…That isn't what…" his mouth opened and closed, unsure. "I didn't mean…"

"Fine." I say trying to calm my voice again. "It might be a simple question, but maybe the answer isn't. So can I finish my shower, please?"

He nodded, looked me over one more time, and was gone. I heard the door close behind him. I should have felt guilty. I knew I wasn't leaving, but he could wait.

He was sitting on the couch when I walked into the living room. I noticed there were two cups of tea sitting in front of him. I grabbed the one that was mine and settled in my chair.

He sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, waiting for me.

"Don't you think you are the one who should be starting this conversation?" I said taking a sip, it wasn't sweet enough, per usual.

Even that panged on my nerves, we'd only lived together 14 months. I knew how he liked his tea, coffee, and just about everything else. He couldn't bother to learn my preferences. I opened my mouth, but swallowed the words down. That was petty, and even as angry as I was I recognized that. He'd tried and it was the thought that counted. Instead of snapping I said, "Isn't there something you'd like to say to me."

He looked confused for a moment. I imagine that the whirlwind of emotions that had crossed my features in those split seconds before hadn't helped him to get his footing. He probably wanted to say that he'd tried in the bathroom and it had blown up in his face and that I should lead the way. I wanted something specific though, and given a moment he would figure it out. I waited.

I watched the realization cross his face. "I'm sorry." He said finally. "Surely, you know that. You also must know that I didn't mean any of what I said. I was…annoyed." His face was still neutral, but he was fighting to keep it that way.

"Apologizes aren't understood, Sherlock. They need to be stated. And you weren't annoyed, you were frustrated." I paused. "And you attacked _me_ because of it. You didn't just yell to alleviate your frustration. I wasn't your sounding board. I was your enemy. You attacked me." I didn't bother to hide my anger, but I kept the volume low.

Pain flashed across his face, but he didn't flinch away. I knew his instinct was to run. There was nothing he disliked more than me upset.

"I didn't mean it." His voice was quiet, but his eyes didn't waiver from mine. "Not a word of it. You are not stupid. I wouldn't love you so much if you were. I just…I…I couldn't figure it out." I was surprised by the admission of weakness. Usually, it would have been enough to make me cave. But I still had more to say.

"I know that. I know you were struggling, but that doesn't somehow make it acceptable. I don't mind listening. I don't mind dealing with the frustration. I don't even mind the yelling. I do mind that you attacked me. ME." I pointed at my chest to emphasis my point. He looked away from me, focusing on the wall.

That made me want to raise my voice, but I took a deep breath and continued as I had been. Nothing would be gained if I lost my temper. "You asked me to do those post-mortems. You knew I didn't want to do it, and that it might bother me. But you asked me, so I did it. Then you belittled me for it. I was tired and upset and you berated me. I didn't deserve that."

He turned his head around looking at me again, eyes glowing. "I know that. I am sorry. Tell me how to make it better. Tell me what to do and I'll do it. I love you. Just don't go."

I stared at him. He looked horrible, but was deadly serious. He thought I was about to walk out the door and was prepared to do whatever I asked to prevent it.

He'd solved the case like I'd asked and then found me. He got me home safe, took care of me, and bought me a new phone. And he'd actually apologized, twice. All the while afraid that he'd finally pushed me away. I felt myself relax and watched him relax in response. I wasn't angry anymore, even if I still wanted to be.

"Why did you think I was leaving?" I wondered what I had said. I'd been pretty pissed at him.

He frowned at that, his cheeks taking on a slight pink hue. He was embarrassed. "You've never stormed away before and I was researching it." I groaned and sat back in my chair. "A woman said her husband always spoke condescendingly to her so she finally walked out on him."

"Sherlock, stop it. We've gone over this before. There are no universal rules or actions in relationships. I need you to trust me, and trust in me."

"I do," his words were suddenly loud. "I just…"

"Just stop it." I said, interrupting. "I'm not leaving." He let out a sigh. "Now, back to the issue at hand, I need you to promise me that you will never, ever speak to me like that again." He was nodding before I finished the sentence.

"Of course." He replied, looking relieved. "It will never happen again." This being Sherlock I was certain that it wouldn't. He'd probably rewired his brain to self-destruct if the urge to speak to me in that fashion ever arose again. The image made me smile.

"I want to apologize for what I said to…" He held up his hand and stopped me.

"Please don't. You have nothing to apologize for. I deserved everything that you said and more." I nodded and was about to stand and go over to him when he spoke again. "Can I make a request?" He asked.

I stopped moving and nodded. He took another deep breath. He seemed nervous about asking. "Please don't ever leave like that again and if you do, stay in range of the cameras. I didn't know where you were, you didn't have your phone. I couldn't find you. I had to call Mycroft and use what we could of the CCTV and then I resorted to calling places all along the direction you were headed. It took hours."

_Hours?_ I couldn't quite make the concept of hours work with my time in the pub, but I believed him. I'd had entirely too much to drink.

"I promise." I said.

"And," he continued. "If I ever ask you to do something and you don't want to do it, please say so. You are invaluable to me on the cases; I hope that you know that. But it pales in comparison to your importance in my life. No case or puzzle is worth that. I can't guarantee that it won't annoy me, on occasion, if you refuse, but always know that you can. Just tell me to shut up if I get too pushy or maybe we can develop a scale of importance. Then we would both know where the other stood on issues." He perked up at that.

Sherlock loved to create a rating system. We'd already established ones for television viewing, restaurants, food and drink in general, and danger associated with experiments. I'm also fairly certain that he had a secret one, rating enjoyment on everything from touching to sexual position, for both of us.

Though, all of Sherlock's rating systems had one fatal flaw. "You'll just rate it higher to guilt me into doing it." I said, "The same way we never eat what I want to. How a restaurant, that I know you love, will suddenly be ranked so low because you want something else. " There was no harshness in my voice and I knew the smirk on my face would relay that it didn't make me angry.

He frowned though, and I wondered if it was because I'd figured it out or because I'd called him on it. He finally nodded accepting the flaw in his plan.

"It's just that...that…" he looked towards the floor. "That look, on your face." He cringed at the memory. "I don't ever want to see that again. Ever. It hurt me."

I stood and moved to stand between his legs. He buried his face in my hip, one arm settled around my thighs, the other on my lower back. His hand worked under my shirt and his index finger settled into the dimpled birth mark on my back. It hadn't given the mark more than a second thought my whole life, but Sherlock had latched onto it. It was his security blanket to make sure that I was ok. I couldn't say that I minded.

He took a deep breath and held it, savoring me.

I wrapped one hand into his curls, they needed to be washed, and the other between his shoulder blades rubbing small circles.

"I will let you know if something makes me uncomfortable in the future. Ok?"

He nodded, face not moving from my hip, but he did tighten his arm around my thighs.

We stood like that for a long moment before he turned his head so I could hear his words. "I don't know if you want to know this." He paused. "But it would have taken a lot longer to solve the case if you hadn't been in those post-mortems. The fight helped me find the others."

I was surprised, I surely didn't feel like I'd contributed anything useful, but then I didn't stick around for the solution either. "How?"

He settled his chin into my hip so that he could look up at me. "You pointed out that they'd all had surgery in the last two years. The other girls had surgeries dating back farther. She found them through the NHS. She took 15 year olds because her daughter was 15 when she killed herself. She tried to recreate their relationship."

Somehow knowing the solution didn't make me feel any better. Three girls were still dead, five traumatized, probably for the rest of their lives. I was glad that I'd helped though. Glad all the drama we'd gone through had a purpose other than us understanding each other better. Glad the pulsing headache that was returning hadn't been in vain.

"I'm glad you found them." I replied, not wanting to discuss it further. I traced his ear with my thumb. "Thank you for the phone, by the way."

He beamed at that, glad that I'd appreciated it. He really did enjoy making me happy.

"I'm going back to bed for a bit. Do you want to come?" He beamed even more with a sultry look crossing his face. It made me smile.

"I have a pounding headache, dear." I smirked. His face fell. The disappointment was genuine the sulk was feigned. I traced his ear again, his eyes fluttered. "I need some more sleep, so do you."

He frowned. "Can we have sex when you wake up?" He asked. I just shook my head.

"I'll make you a deal. If you come with me to get some more sleep, we'll have make-up sex when WE wake up."

He pretended to think it over. "Deal." His right hand came up and he offered it to shake. I did so and used it to pull him up. He invaded my space for a moment before placing a kiss on my forehead and moving past me. I followed him down the hall.

He stripped down and looked at me expectantly to follow suit. I did, tossing my sweats on top of the chair to be put back on later.

I lay on my back and he snuggled up right beside me, one arm draped over my waist and one leg resting between mine. He placed a kiss against my temple as I adjusted the blankets around us. Then I shoved my arm under his neck so he could rest his head on my shoulder. We were clearly practiced in the maneuvers, settling against each other with ease, the presence of the other familiar and welcome. I placed a kiss into his hair.

"I love you." I finally said. He just squeezed me tighter in response. It was enough.

I closed my eyes and silently wished for peaceful dreams. The previous two days having provided a breeding ground for nightmares.

Sleep had just been dancing on the outskirts of my mind when Sherlock spoke again.

"John?"

"hmmmm." I kept my eyes closed hoping to fight off full wakefulness.

"Chopin was her favorite composer." I opened my eyes. Non sequiturs tended to do that to me.

"What?" I tried to see him, but he wouldn't lift his head from my shoulder.

"Emily Harper. Her favorite composer was Chopin." Unexpected. I tensed beside him, having absolutely no desire at all to talk about Emily, especially while in bed with Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" I started. He interrupted, tightening around me once again having noticed the tension.

"She studied the piano exclusively, but her favorite work was Cello Sonata in G Minor. A beautiful piece actually. I have it in my iPod we can listen to it whenever you'd like." He paused. "I can play it, but it loses something on the violin. She was apparently an excellent pianist and probably would have succeeded if things had been different."

"Sherlock." I'm more emphatic this time. "Why are you…"

"I want you to let me carry her, John. For you. You have too many and I never want there to be one because of me." He tightens even more, completely serious. "I promise I won't delete her, I'll keep her forever. I can't promise that I'll have dreams about her, but I'll think about her on her birthday and the day she died. I'll think about her when I hear Chopin or piano concertos. I'll play them for her and regret that she can no longer play them herself." His voice was pleading. "Please."

I was stunned, shocked to the point of silence. It doesn't work like that, no matter how much I wish it did. But it was, without a doubt, the single nicest thing anyone had ever tried to do for me. My heart swelled and my throat tightened at the gesture.

"I'd carry them all if I could." He added in a whisper.

I pulled on his hair slightly to get him to look at me. He did, reluctantly.

"Thank you." I said with every ounce of sincerity I had. I swallowed past the lump in my throat, I knew he'd notice. "I know you would, but I would never wish that on you. They're my demons. And I can't promise that I'll never think of Emily, I can't turn it off. But I…"

"Please try." He interrupted, again. "I…I don't like it that you hurt sometimes. You're honest and kind; you don't deserve that." His eyes were piercing and sincere. I was very aware that I'd earned my demons, the people and the events. They were mine to carry. I didn't want to argue that point with Sherlock though, especially as his offer was genuine.

Instead I kissed him, soft and sweet. I mumbled an "I'll try" against his lips before he pulled back. He wanted to make sure I was serious. Finding what he needed he settled his head back on my shoulder and snuggled against me.

I closed my eyes and was surprised how quickly sleep approached again. It had almost overtaken me when an image from the previous night popped into my head.

"Sherlock?" He popped up instantly meeting my eyes. Curious.

"Can we go to New Orleans?" I asked, simply, not wanting to explain.

He frowned, confused for a moment but nodded his head. "We can go anywhere you want." He answered. "Except Dubai, we can never go there." He paused. "And honestly, Las Vegas should probably be avoided."

I laughed at that, it hurt my head, but felt wonderful. It had been too long since I'd laughed. Sherlock looked down at me pleased at the noise and at himself for causing it.

He kissed my shoulder before settling his head back against it. "When do you want to go? May I suggest we avoid Mardi Gras?"

"Absolutely," I said. "And soon. I've just…"I didn't know how to explain it. "I think I'd like it there."

The slight nod let me know he accepted that. Silence fell around us and I closed my eyes. I didn't push the sleep away.

I dreamt of Sherlock.

A/N – Thanks, once again, to ScopesMonkey for allowing me to borrow Jamie. And just as I promised I'm returning him in the exact same condition he was in when I borrowed him, dead.


End file.
